Forward Passes (Seattle Lumberjacks) Page 3

  “My cat?” Tyler leaned against the doorframe and hooked his thumbs in the belt loops of his jeans. He crossed one ankle over the other, as he studied the cat. The smile faded from his face. “I know that cat.”

  “You’ve met before.” Lavender bit back a laugh at the image of the vindictive feline tripping Tyler and sending him and the urn tumbling into the frigid waters of Outlaw Bay.

  “Yeah, I remember, and no way in hell is that my cat.”

  Cat looked up at him and meowed, digging his claws into Lavender’s arm.

  “That’s not what he says.”

  He stared at the fat lump of orange fur in her arms, his expression skeptical. “The cat lies.”

  “Cats never lie.”

  “That one does. I don’t have a fucking cat.”

  “He’s not a fucking cat, he’s fixed.”

  Tyler chuckled. “Don’t quit your day job. You’ll never make it on the comedy channel.” His mouth turned up in a genuine grin, making him seem human, almost nice. The man was get-naked-now gorgeous when he smiled like that and way too irresistible. Good thing he spent the majority of his time in jerk mode.

  She steeled herself against his many weapons even as her body rebelled. Well, it could protest all it wanted; she’d limit her fantasies to her imagination and her vibrator. She’d learned her lesson when it came to men who played games for a living.

  Case in point, her absentee father, who abandoned his family for the fame and fortune of coaching ball at a major college. And the quarterback who dated her in high school just to add another notch in his belt. Then there was the linebacker her freshman year of college who told his frat buddies about their sex life in every vivid detail. The ass even offered to share. That was the end of him. There were more, but those were the lowlights.

  She’d been on a jock-free diet for four years now. So what if Tyler happened to be an exceptional physical specimen? Willpower stood on her side. Only willpower didn’t have a killer smile, straight white teeth, and a teasing glint in his eye.

  Oh, Lord, she’d been staring at him like a lovesick high-school cheerleader. Rattled, she lowered her gaze back to his chest, not a good idea either, so she looked back at his face, specifically his nose, about the safest part on his body.

  “This cat comes with the house. He was Artie’s cat.” At his blank expression, she prodded his memory a little more. “Remember? The one named in the will?”

  “Oh, that one.” The man even had a gorgeous frown.

  “Yes, that one.”

  “Tell you what? Since I’m such a generous guy, I’ll let you have him.” She watched as his charm flooded back at full wattage, especially now that he wanted something from her.

  “My landlady doesn’t allow animals.”

  “What am I going to do with a cat?”

  Lavender could think of a lot of things. Love them. Cuddle them. Take care of them. And when things got tough, no matter what, they’d always be there, purring or licking your face, taking away the hurt. Nothing like a man. “You’re not an animal person are you?”

  “I love animals. Just not cats.” He straightened and glared down at her, like she’d insulted him or something.

  That surprised her. Shocked her actually. She never would’ve pegged him for an animal lover. “Good. Then I won’t need to report you for animal neglect.”

  “Sweetheart, threats don’t work with me, but I am open to other types of bribes.” The jerk made a show of looking her up and down.

  “Not even a threat of castration? It might improve your attitude. It helps with most animals.”

  “Honey, I’d like to see you try.” He threw back his head and laughed, a deep from-his-belly laugh. She liked his laugh, all strong and masculine with an undercurrent of good-natured humor, totally at odds with his usual asshole scowl.

  “They grow on you. In no time you’ll be drowning in cat hair and loving every minute of it. Give me a call if you need any cat tips.” She shoved Cat into his arms and tucked a business card deep in the pocket of his Jeans. Her fingers brushed something hard and—

  Oh crap.

  Without another word, Lavender hurried down his front steps and out through the main gate.

  * * * * *

  Tyler stared after Lavender, mouth hanging open, cock locked and loaded, and the furry hunk of lard clutched in his arms.

  Her butt in those baggy chinos swayed back and forth. Her tangle of red hair bounced with each step. He liked what he saw from the back, as much as he’d liked the front. Usually, he preferred his women tall and willowy with large, enhanced breasts, Barbie dolls in the flesh, yet his neighbor had it going on for some unexplained reason.

  The island must be getting to him. He’d spent two weeks stuck on this rock in the furthest corner of Washington State. Needless to say, he craved some entertainment.

  As a result, he didn’t disguise his interest when Lavender showed up on his doorstep holding the cat in her arms. Especially after she slid that business card in his jeans and shocked the hell out of him. She’d copped a feel, most likely accidentally, since his pocket and his cock were in the same vicinity. His cock didn’t care if it was an accident or not. Desire surged to his dick and turned it harder than that big boulder on the shore near the marina.

  Since Cass ignored his occasional calls and text messages, he figured the engagement was off. That being the case, Lavender might prove a welcome distraction if she was interested. And she was interested, all right. Her irreverent foreplay said as much.

  His mouth tipped up in a satisfied smirk. Most women drooled all over him. Not her. The contempt on her face came through as loud as referee’s whistle. No problem, he never mixed physical with emotional. You didn’t have to like a person to have great sex with them. Every one of his last several girlfriends proved that theory. Besides, her body didn’t hate his body—not one damn bit.

  The cat meowed at him, breaking him out of his trance. Oh, shit, he hated cats. What the hell was he going to do with a fur-spreading, litter-box using, flea-infested cat? He didn’t want cat fur on his furniture, or headless mice on his front porch, and no way in hell would he clean a litter box.

  The fat cat lolling in his arms drooled, rolled its eyes up at him, and smirked, as if to say, “Fuck you, buddy.”

  “Hey, fuck you, too.” He put the cat on the porch.

  The cat stared up at him, blinking his green eyes.

  “I mean it. Find a new home. I’m not a cat person.”

  The cat didn’t move. Tyler frowned, narrowed his eyes, set his jaw, and glowered at the furry creature with his best you’re-in-deep-shit glower. It worked on the biggest, baddest lineman in the NFL.

  It didn’t work on the cat.

  The damn thing yawned and sauntered past him to scratch at the door.

  “No way in hell are you getting in my house.” Tyler liked things neat and tidy. Claw marks on his antique leather furniture and orange cat hair on his black leather jacket didn’t do it for him.

  The cat stared at him. Tyler got the impression the cat knew something he didn’t. It rankled him. He hated being out of the loop, even with a damn cat.

  “Okay, I’ll cut you a deal. I’ll buy cat food if you agree to live in the barn. And that’s my final offer.”

  The cat blinked again.

  “Canned cat food?”

  The cat meowed.

  With an annoyed sigh, Tyler opened the door. The cat slipped past him and led the way into the old mansion as if he owned the flipping place. His orange and white striped tail waved like the flag of a conquering army.

  Damn. Damn. Damn. He didn’t need a fucking cat. What the hell was he doing letting the damn thing in his house? Someone might see it and accuse him of being a softie under his asshole exterior. That would fucking never, ever do. The guys in the locker room would eat him alive.

  He followed the cat into the kitchen. The little shit sat down and waited while he poured milk in a bowl and placed it on the floor. The ca
t sniffed it, lapped at it a few times, and sat down again, staring up at him.

  “Aw, hell. What now?” Tyler pulled a ham out of the refrigerator, cut it up in small pieces, and put it next to the milk bowl. Finally satisfied, the cat finished the whole thing and rubbed against his legs. Tyler leaned down and scratched the tabby behind the ears. The cat arched its back and danced around him. Tyler shook his head and smiled. “Don’t get any ideas, buddy. I don’t like cats.”

  The cat rested on its haunches and yawned as if he knew Tyler was full of shit.

  Shaking his head, Tyler remembered the business card and pulled it from his pocket. Printed on one side was the name and address of a local veterans club. On the other she’d scratched a phone number. He rubbed his chin, wondering which mixed message this female meant to send him. With a shrug, he left the card on the counter and went to bed.

  A few hours later, Tyler woke from a sound sleep and spat out a mouth full of cat hair. The cat purred loudly on the pillow next to his. Rolling over, he closed his eyes and tried to go back to sleep.

  Tomorrow he’d get rid of the cat.

  Chapter 5

  Tripped Up

  Tyler looked down at the random pieces of paper scattered on the roll-top desk. Startling numbers swam across the old-fashioned ledger pages, painting a more dismal picture than he’d ever imagined.

  Jim Miller failed to mention his uncle’s extreme financial straits. What Art owed could bankrupt a small country. He’d be lucky to realize one penny out of this money-sucking monstrosity based on the fucking liens and mortgages on the property. In fact, in this economy, the value could very well be upside down. No wonder Uncle Art dumped it on him, rather than his cronies and Purple Lady. Only Artie had no way of knowing that Tyler wasn’t exactly flush with cash either.

  What a fucking mess.

  He could walk out right now and leave it to the vultures to pick the bones clean. Let Lavender and the Brothers deal with the frigging disaster.

  Tyler sighed and massaged the back of his stiff neck with one hand. His problems weighted him down. He still hadn’t heard anything on possible charges related to his traffic incident. The cop claimed he’d assaulted an officer, even though Tyler never used his fists, only his big mouth. That worst case scenario would catapult the press into a feeding frenzy, the NFL into punishment mode, and the Lumberjacks front office into a panic. He’d be up a fucking creek, possibly fined to the hilt, and wasting his Super Bowl bonus money on attorney fees and spin doctors. Add to that the rumors about drug and alcohol rehab and the alleged DUI.

  Crap. He stood and stretched, grabbed a coat and walked out the door, needing a break.

  Tyler hunkered down against the wind and rain, wrapped his raincoat around him and trudged out to the mailbox. Shoving the mail under his coat, he hurried back to the house and slammed the heavy front door to keep out the elements. Shedding his wet coat, he hung it on a peg near the door. Immediately, a puddle formed below it. Shaking his head, he spread the mail on the kitchen counter. Since few people even knew where he was, the mail consisted of junk and stuff his sisters forwarded from his Seattle water view condo.

  Cass’s sloppy handwriting was sloshed all over the front of a padded envelope. He ripped it open. He withdrew a small box, already knowing what was inside—her engagement ring. He opened the box and a huge diamond winked at him as if it knew something he didn’t.

  Tyler turned it over in his hand, examining it from all angles and waited. Waited for the heart-wrenching sorrow, the devastation, the sense of loss. All those painful feelings he’d felt at eighteen when his father died suddenly, the worst loss of his life. Or when Ryan died or Uncle Art. Surely the loss of his fiancée would compare to those losses.

  It didn’t.

  He felt—nothing. Except an odd relief, an ease of pressure, like slowly letting the air out of a balloon. The same feeling he’d felt after winning this last Super Bowl.

  Like oil and water, he and Cass had broken up on a weekly basis since they’d met in their freshman year of college. The make-up sex had been worth it, until lately. In fact, Tyler would be the first to admit that he’d proposed to her because he thought it would fix what was wrong between them. Maybe even what was broken inside him. Only Cass hadn’t held the key.

  There was something final and certain about this time. They were done, and he knew it, as sure as she’d known it when he’d committed to staying on the island.

  Marriage had never been in the cards for him. After growing up in a family only seen in 1950s sitcoms, he’d already known he’d never be able to duplicate what his parents had together. So why try?

  Nor could he fix a dying teenage boy, a kid who fought for life and didn’t deserve to die. Nor could Tyler, who’d once considered himself invincible, give Ryan the one thing he’d wanted most, a future. The fucking unfairness of it all ate him up inside, made all his problems seem petty in comparison. Even anonymously donating one million in cash to cancer research hadn’t made Tyler feel worthwhile.

  Damn it. Damn it. Damn it. He hated feeling helpless. Regardless, he might be a lot of things, but he wasn’t a quitter. Not once he’d made up his mind. He’d see himself through this mess, and he’d do Ryan proud.

  Tyler punched buttons on the thermostat, but the old furnace didn’t fire up. Damn. It was freezing butt cold in this drafty old dump. He grabbed his cell phone on the off chance he’d miraculously have cell service. No such luck. He’d have to drive into Friday Harbor to call a repairman. While he was at it, he’d call the damn phone company again and the satellite TV service. Not to mention a plumber to look at the leak in the kitchen and a roofer to repair a few damaged spots on the roof.

  His foul mood just got fouler. Isolation, boredom, and frustration didn’t improve his temper one bit. Hell, he couldn’t even surf the Internet or watch a game. Yanking on a sweatshirt, he stalked into the library to build a fire.

  “Off the furniture, little shit, or you’ll be sleeping on a hay bale in the barn.” Hands on hips, legs braced apart, Tyler stared down at the cat. He itched for a good fight. It looked like he’d settle for a cat as his opponent. The cat stared back, blinked his green eyes, and yawned. The little shit stood, annoyed at having his nap interrupted, yawned, stretched, and turned a small circle. Settling into the overstuffed armchair, he kept his back to Tyler.

  He’d just been flipped off by an orange fur ball, an uninvited non-guest in his house. “Get off the fucking chair.”

  No response, not even a twitch of an ear. Bending down, he reached for the interloper. The crazy bastard struck him as fast as a rattler strikes a field mouse. Tyler yelped and jumped back, holding a bloodied hand.

  “Damn it! Fucking feline. I knew I hated cats. Worthless little piece of fur-spreading vermin.”

  The cat stalked off, irritated about God knew what. Grabbing his leather jacket slung over the back of the couch, Tyler dropped the coat over the feline, wrapping it around the little body.

  All hell broke loose. The thing fought like a cougar, not an ordinary house cat. Its little legs churned like pistons, claws ripping his coat to shreds. Its body twisted inside the coat, as it yowled.

  Ty would’ve preferred taking his chances in a cage with an ultimate fighting champion. He held on for all he was worth, hurried to the door, opened it far enough to deposit the rabid, coat-wrapped cat on the porch, and slammed it shut. Panting for breath, he leaned against the door.

  Sacrificing a designer leather coat was a small price to pay for not being maimed for life.

  * * * * *

  Lavender stretched in her bed and opened her eyes a crack. Sun poured through the window, a rare sight compared to the rain of the past few weeks.

  Cuddling back under the covers for a few more minutes of sleep, her mind drifted to the jock next door. She cringed as she recalled handing him her phone number.

  She’d been dropped into a dilemma of her own making—hers and Art’s. Damned if she did, and damned if she didn’
t. She needed Tyler to leave before the ninety days ended, so the Brothers and she could inherit and follow through on Art’s dreams. Yet, if he did forfeit, she doubted they could afford to keep the place in its present state, let alone fix it up.

  Tyler could afford to do that, but he’d as good as said he wouldn’t. Unless she found a way to persuade him. Lavender stopped that thought right there.

  She might have a weakness for gorgeous bad boys—and Tyler filled those big shoes easily—but her peace of mind revolved around not indulging her libido. Besides, her various relationships with athletes over the years never led to anything but heartache.

  Lavender sighed. Just wait until her grandmother got wind of her new neighbor.

  Her grandmother hated jocks so much, she’d go ape-shit when she found out a jock lived next door, and the worst kind of jock, a football player. Not just any football player but one involved in several recent scandals from driving drunk to giving up on the team when they needed him most.

  Grandma would probably mount a community protest. At the least, she’d slap a chastity belt on her wild-at-times granddaughter, while her grandfather stood guard with a shotgun. Lavender chuckled at the picture that presented.

  Not to worry, Gram. As badly as she wanted to save the mansion, she wouldn’t go that far.

  Then she heard it.

  The cat. Yowling somewhere outside. His bitching came through loud and clear, and he was pissed.

  All winter the finicky cat next door bitched day and night about the quality of his living arrangements, demanding his house cat status back. In the short time Tyler Harris had lived in the old mansion, he’d ignored the animal, which is why she’d finally intervened on the cat’s behalf yesterday.

  Harris behaved exactly as she’d expected the arrogant jock to behave. Lucky her, why couldn’t he have been a marine biologist or an artist, even a plumber? But a jock? Damn. What a subversive twist of fate. She’d had enough of jocks to last a lifetime, especially one who didn’t take his responsibilities seriously. She knew the type.

  The jock had been around long enough to shoulder his responsibilities, namely the animal he’d inherited.